


Della Robbia

by MissEllaVation



Category: U2
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2019-01-30 15:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12656664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissEllaVation/pseuds/MissEllaVation
Summary: Late February, 2017. Bono is in Dublin, Edge is in L.A. Bono is getting restless and feels the need to communicate with Edge. As he is a mature gentleman, he decides to use email.The first exchange is just the two of them goofing around. (The record isnotdone, while the Ikea project was actually finished ages ago.) Subsequently, the conversation turns to other things.





	Della Robbia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> Why do I like to imagine B and E being far apart and writing to each other? Maybe because this is the situation I find myself in with most of my friends lately. Electronic communications have become the feature, not the bug.
> 
> Once again, I have no compass, and I have no map. They’re just talking about stuff. Being sentimental and only the tiniest bit naughty. If you’re entertained by that sort of thing, then you’ll like this. (I know, I know. I'm due to write something really filthy. Next time.)
> 
> These totally pretend emails were exchanged in late winter of 2017, shortly before the events of Blue Ginger—a deeply serious fic!—took place. This is also a mere few months before the kickoff of TJT30. So, it’s a nice, quiet, in-between moment—maybe. I don’t know what these guys really do during their downtime because they never return my calls. We can safely assume that _someone_ was building that big screen, but otherwise, who knows.
> 
> Regarding the title: Over on the blue hell site, I once compared a picture of a very young Edge to a Della Robbia sculpture. Thanks to my sweet fouroux for suggesting I work that into a fic. :) [Here is the one](http://www.iicwashington.esteri.it/iic_washington/resource/img/2017/03/4848-024.jpg) Bono alludes to below.
> 
> Thanks to all readers, kudo-ers, and commenters! You make me feel so weirdly happy.

Earth to Edge, Earth to Edge. Come in, Edge.

Would you ever stop tinkering? The record is done, don’t you think? Declare victory and leave. Grab M and several dozen of your children and join us back here in the Old Country. How can you tolerate all that sunshine? It’s been raining here for days, and everything, even the sky, is a lovely moss-green, like your eyes.

Certain people miss you. Your physical presence, I mean. And by “certain people,” I mean me. I tried to kiss your picture, but it didn’t feel right. Did you know that laptop screens are hot at the bottom and cool everywhere else? A bit like you. But no. Overall, they are glassy and unyielding, and they taste of dust.

Not like you at all.  
B

 

***

Bono, you know perfectly well that I can’t just up and leave. I’ve still got this massive Ikea project going on in the backyard. I suppose it’s nearly finished, but there are nuts and bolts left over, and they nag at me. Besides, what if I’m needed in another Women’s March?

Speaking of which, aren’t you still meeting me in New York to tweak the lyrics? That was your idea, not mine, remember?

I miss you too. But please don’t kiss your laptop screen. As the daughters would say, that’s just gross.

Your very own,  
E

 

***

 Theeeeee Edge,

Doesn’t Ikea just give you extra nuts and bolts anyway? Just in case you drop a nut behind a radiator? I’m not implying you’ve ever dropped a nut behind a radiator, but it could happen.

Did I mention how adorable you looked at the Women’s March? So proud of you, love. Thanks for representing us. I’m just sorry that cretin Pence accosted me at Munich in front of all the cameras. I suppose I could go online and yell “fake news” but I’m not quite enough of an arsehole yet to bother.

[Long, drawn-out sigh.] The tour can’t happen soon enough to suit me. I need some serious attention from an adoring audience. And from an adoring Edge.

Love,  
B

 

***

B,

Yeah, I thought I wouldn’t mention the Pence thing, but… Look, if it’s any consolation, there’s so much happening right now that no one will remember it for very long. I saw the video and it’s obvious that _he_ ran over to _you_ like an excited little girl. (I don’t blame him for that.) But sweetheart, even at these geopolitical fiascos, you sometimes go into your Zone. You forget there are cameras all over the place, and in your kind, generous way, you remind the creepiest bastard on earth about that one good thing he did back in 2003 when he was in Congress, so it looks a tiny, tiny bit like you’re fawning. Don’t get angry; I know you weren’t. I know you were trying to shame that second-rate Göring into behaving like a human being. But I think we both know how unlikely that is.

Babe, I’m so sorry you got jumped on by the trolls again. Only you could keep putting yourself out there year after year, with that beautiful, hopeful smile on your face. You deserve only love.

Only love,  
E

 

***

“Second-rate Göring?” Edge, I believe you are finally, officially, Pissed Off. This is a good look for you. I like it.

I sure could use some E right now. (Wink.) And some harsh tasty beats. And a little grindy dancing with my guitarist/companion. Those were the days, right?

But no! We shall not go backward! Only forward! Forward!…Into the Joshua Tree Tour Redux? Ah well, we’ll just fake it till we make it. We’ll say some nice words that almost make sense, and then go have some fun, won’t we? No one’s going to call us a Nostalgia Act Doing A Cash-Grab, are they? Certainly not once they’ve seen the show. [Angst.]

Well my dear, it’s another rainy day and we are getting a bit of cabin fever here. That’s the royal “we.” I’m looking forward to New York. I don’t care how infernally frigid or abominably snowy it is. I can’t wait to get into the studio, and I can’t wait to see you. I miss your sweet face, and the _all_ of you—all the to-and-fro of you, all the this-and-that of you. (A poet, moi.)

Speaking of your face, all this rain drove Ali and me to do a little housekeeping. Not the real kind, obviously. But we finally got around to sorting through some boxes of loose photos from our adventures in pre-digital times. So many pictures, Edge! Some funny, some poignant. Many grotesque—hence their home in the box rather in an album or a frame. We sat down on the floor and sorted them into piles of “Us,” “Kids,” “Friends,” “Bob,” “Scenic Vistas,” and “OMG Throw That One Away.”

Then Ali said, “Oh look, it’s the Della Robbia Edge,” and handed me a five-by-seven glossy with a 15-Minute-Photo logo on the back. 

I shall explain. The Della Robbia Edge was something we saw on our first trip to Italy. In _Firenze_ , in The Bargello. A pretty little sculpture of a young man’s head and neck, surrounded by a circle of foliage and fruit. Did a quick search just now and found that it’s called "Roundel with Head of a Youth," from about 1470. But when we saw it in real life, we both thought of you instantly. It’s you! I mean, okay, the terra cotta boy doesn’t have a magnificent caveman forehead like yours. But something about him is very much you. A soft beauty, slightly disgruntled.

I set the snapshot aside, as it didn’t really fit in with any of the designated categories. Not a Scenic Vista. Certainly not Bob. And not exactly a Friend, either. I put it down on the floor right next to me, tucked halfway under my leg. Glanced up and caught Ali watching me. She looked, I think, mostly indulgent.

Please feel yourself being kissed, gently and reverently, upon your beautiful caveman-forehead.  
B

 

***

I feel that kiss, and I kiss you back. Gently and reverently. Everywhere, sweetheart.

I googled the Roundel. I guess, if I squint, I can make out something of my much, much younger face there. The nose, and the kind of all-over-the-place lips. The hair (sigh.) Definitely not the forehead though—no Della Robbia would have attempted my forehead! You’d need someone more tough and scrappy for that. And a huge block of marble.

It makes me happy that you thought I was as pretty as that terra cotta boy. (That you and Ali both thought so.)

Are those lemons above my head, on the left?

One more gentle, reverent kiss,  
E

 

***

Kiss received, and returned again. And again.

Yes, I believe they _are_ lemons, The Edge! Sometimes the world just makes sense.

Speaking of kisses, and reminiscence, and the Della Robbia version of you, I’ve been thinking about the first time we kissed. Do you remember?

B

 

***

Do I remember? As if you would let me forget.

No, I really do remember. Of course I do. After all, it was such an intense time, wasn’t it? The end of nearly three years of touring. I was out of my mind on parties, accolades, and loneliness. But mostly I remember feeling exhausted by your stage presence. Months and months of total confusion—although pretty funny in retrospect. (Mostly.)

We were at a party in some posh person’s house. Someone from RTE, right? A news producer. The music was terrible. But you, ever the showman. You pounced on me, and before I knew it we were slow-dancing to a Kenny G. song, to the accompaniment of much laughter and applause—which you needed, now that you weren’t performing for an audience every night. You started off leading (of course) but after a while you dropped your head onto my shoulder. As if you were actually moved by that schmaltzy saxophone. You just melted into me. Fell into my arms, trembled like a flower, etc.

I was gonna kill you, because you deserved it. I was panicking. All those people, and—if I may be uncharacteristically crude—an incipient case of _los cojones azuls_.

The song ended finally, and oh, the hilarity. "Ha ha, Bono and Edge, those adorable heterosexuals with their wives and children!" I laughed along, but I thought I was gonna cry, and I thought you were too. And then! You just walked off and left me there! You went zig-zagging away through the crowd, trailing sparks, stopping here and there to crack wise, because how obvious would it have looked if you’d just fled? And I stayed right where I was, trying to keep an eye on you, because fleeing didn’t seem like a good option for me either.

So after about a century, I went to find you. Up a staircase and down a hall. I felt I was stalking you, following your scent, and I was pretty sure you wanted me to. You’d just spent the better part of three years chasing me with a big spotlight, hanging on me, leaning on me, rubbing your face into my shoulder and my neck. Doing your little strip-tease. (Those fucking suspenders, Bono. How was that even allowed?) Singing to me, staring uncomfortably into my eyes, into the back of my skull. Forcing me to stare back.

Anyway, the kiss. Where I finally found you, in the RTE person’s atrocious guest bedroom overlooking Dublin Bay. A leopard-print bedspread, and on the walls, lurid paintings of spread-eagled nudes—bad ones. “Naked ladies.” I don’t remember much about the RTE person actually; I can’t remember if she was being deliberately kitsch or if she just had bad taste.

But you.

You were all hot and smoky, a little drunk and unsteady. Standing by the window, waiting for me. Your hair was a thick, dark veil, longer than it had ever been. I think I tried to bury myself in it when I came up behind you. You were wearing a gauzy black shirt, untucked, mostly unbuttoned, the cuffs undone (undone, like me.) A stranger taking a quick glance might have thought you were a damsel in distress, but no, you were you. A man. Your unshaven chin scraped my face when you turned around. You were hard against my thigh, like a man, but you hung on to my neck like a woman. God, I wanted you, and God, I was so scared. I can’t believe how long it took us to get around to everything else. A year? I still feel bad about that. Dragging it out, I mean. But again— _scared_. Terrified.

So yes sweetheart, I remember that kiss. You don’t forget a kiss like that. I felt like a house that had been standing empty for years, and then you moved in and turned all the lights on. So much was in that kiss. Everything we’d been through together. Friendship and desire, love and fear. Ourselves at our best and at our worst. Music and silence, honey and poison.

But listen to me, waxing poetic. That’s your job, not mine. It was hot, okay? It was hot, babe. Hot, hard, sweaty, and all wrong, the way the best things always are.

I really don’t think I’ve kissed you enough lately. When we get to New York, I promise I’ll kiss you like it’s 1990.

E

 

***

That… was lovely, Edge. Unexpected, steamy, and just lovely. I’m going to hold you to that promise. In fact, I’m gonna shove you right up against that promise till you beg me to—or, actually, I might just go re-read those last four paragraphs in solitude somewhere, and think about you in your old Lonesome Cowboy Edge outfit, grabbing me around the hips and lifting me right off my feet…

However! That RTE-lady-guestroom kiss was _not_ our first kiss. Not by a long shot.

Shaking my damn head at you,  
B

 

***

Okay. I’m treading carefully here. My dear. My sweetheart. My main squeeze—sort of—all these years. What have I forgotten? Tell me. You know, a lot of the past is a blur. It is, isn’t it? It is for me. It must be for you too. We’ve been through an awful lot over the years. (We really have, sweetheart.)

I love you. Don’t torture me. Come on.

E

 

***

Edge, I am breathing out the most long-suffering sigh. Yes, we have been through a lot, love. But I’m making a conscious effort not to dwell on anything negative right now, because, well. Just because. You know why. But anyway.

Maybe you were so bowled over by my idiosyncratically androgynous beauty that you had no choice but to block out certain events. I seem to have that effect on people. “A bit much, our Bono,” some people say.

So I’ll give you a hint: The flat we’d rented in London. The first one. It’s unsettling to remember how young we were then. I can’t imagine turning John and Eli loose into the world just yet. But I suppose it was a different time. I see those old black-and-white pictures, and I can almost believe the world really looked like that—monochromatic, melodramatic.

We’d had a bit of a rough start, you’ll remember. Well, mostly you, tearing up your wrist and then contracting meningitis. _Meningitis_ , The Edge. That shit is contagious! We could all have been dead. Imagine us being carried out of that flat like medieval plague victims. And I didn’t even know enough back then to be worried about you. I thought it was like the flu, or mono at worst. My God.

Anyway, we were a couple of weeks into our residency and of course you had bounced back with the resilience of youth. We had just played a reasonably well-attended, well-received gig in a very big pub. It was late; we were all back in the flat.

Ringing any bells just yet?

Love and kisses,  
B

 

***

Yes, bells are ringing now. Little tinkly Steve Lillywhite glockenspiel bells. 

I remember. It was Larry—Larry was having his moment of doubt and pain. Sitting on the bed in the room he and Adam were sharing. He was complaining about the gig, wasn’t he? Some minor thing had gone wrong, and for some reason he took it to heart.

You were sitting next to him, a man of great experience and insight, almost twenty years old. You were telling him, “you can’t have your best night _every_ night, and besides, tonight wasn’t bad at all.” Very reasonable. I bought it. Adam bought it. We’d all had a few pints anyway. Nothing was bothering me much just then. I thought I’d played quite well. (Grin.)

But Larry looked so unhappy. I do remember that. And I didn’t know what to say to him at all. So Adam and I escaped to the front room. We were gonna watch some late-night telly, if we could find any, and just leave the emotional work up to you.

Things were quiet for a while, then I heard a big gasp that I didn’t realize at first was a sob. Larry was crying? Adam looked at me—I looked at him. Neither of us spoke, but Adam has those big expressive eyes, you know, and it was obvious we’d both come to the same conclusion. This was unprecedented. Feelings other than happiness or rage were not something we were prepared to handle. Not in each other, anyway. Girlfriends could cry. Not us.

I could hear you murmuring to Larry, your voice pitched low and gentle. Just you and him, the lost boys, the two motherless children. Young people can be really callous, can’t they? But I suppose I was evolving a bit because just then, my heart broke for the both of you.

I told Adam I would look in on you, make sure things were okay. I tiptoed into the hall and peered around the door. You’d your arm around Larry and his head was resting on your shoulder. Tough Larry, take-no-prisoners Larry! But at that moment he looked about eight years old, with his child’s head of blonde hair.

You were just sort of crooning nonsense words at him. "There, there," that sort of thing. Your eyes so blue, and so tender. You understood him. The two of you understood each other. You were linked together by this primal loss, and set adrift in the land of the enemy. But you, B, you just knew how to be soft, I guess. You knew exactly what Larry needed, and you embodied it. You became a Mum, with your thin little face, and your pretty hair, and your wide eyes. And that soft old sweatshirt you liked to wear.

This is awful, but I felt left out. You and Larry were together in this country where I had never traveled, had no passport. You had a bond, terrible as it was, that you and I couldn’t have. (Sorry, I realize I’m being serious again. Deal with it.)

I wanted to rest my head on your other shoulder. I wanted to be bereaved, just temporarily, so that you would look at me, and murmur at me, and run your hand through my hair gently, the way you were doing with Larry.

And yes, I do remember something else that happened later that night. Have I redeemed myself yet?

Nervously,  
E

 

***

Well The Edge, I firmly believe that no one is beyond redemption. So I guess you’re alright.

Your recollection is pretty accurate, and if you made that connection about Larry and me as motherless children—I mean, if that isn’t the insight of Grownup Edge layered on top of a youthful memory—than I am very impressed indeed with your young Della Robbia self.

Larry was mostly homesick, I think. And probably hungry! (We were hungry all the time, remember?) He just needed reassurance. Such a sweet boy under that uncompromising exterior, don’t you think? (Wink.)

So I just stayed there, in his room, curled up at the foot of the bed, until he fell asleep. Adam had sneaked back in, and was sprawled on the other bed, his nose in a book, starting to nod. The wee hours of the morning. (Wee, like me.) I rolled off the bed with great stealth, tiptoed out into the hall, and closed the door.

The flat was a little too warm, as flats always are. You were alone in the front room, wakeful, sitting on that red couch—first red couch in a series, in fact. What is it about you, me, and red couches? Anyway, I could see the back of your head. You were sitting up straight. I felt that you were waiting for me. After the briefest hesitation, I sat down on the other end of the couch.

You asked me if Larry was okay. I could feel the tension in you. Not only the tension between us, which was always there—really, it was—but an existential tension about the survival of the band. I said, yes, Larry’s okay. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.

Your eyes were searching my face for something. I think the dimness of the room made you bold. Fortunately my hair was hanging over my eyes, which gave you an excuse to reach over and brush it away.

I was always aware of your hands. The kind of hands girls like best, with long slim fingers, raised tendons and veins. I liked them too. You swept my hair off to the side, your fingertips skimming my forehead, my eyebrows. Your own eyes were shaped something like lunette windows, or like laurel leaves turned on their sides. Your nose was (and remains) enviable. As does your lower lip.

(You know Edge, I still feel that you’re too pretty for me. You little Della Robbia.)

You told me I was great. You said [teenager voice], “You were great, talking to Larry like that. How do you always know just what to say? That’s a big thing about you. Like yeah, everyone loves your singing and the girls love you, but I think you’d also be great with anyone who felt alone or sad.”

I said, “You sad, Edge?”

“No no,” you mumbled. “I just see this thing about you.”

Your face was scarlet, Edge, and I already knew I could torture you a little if I felt like it. So I asked if you wanted a hug.

And you—you ever-so-slightly drunken infant! You said, “Yeah, actually.”

 

***

Yeah…I remember saying that. After going right for your hair like a brassy stage-girl.

Well, it worked, didn’t it?

 

***

Yes it did. Well done, The Edge!

That hug went through a lot of stages. Because I had to get it right. Had I misinterpreted your intent, you might have given me a right sound thumping. So my human-brain had to override my lizard-brain. _He just needs a hug because he is in a big city far from home, and because he is your friend, and because for some reason he thinks you know how to make people feel better when they’re sad. Even though he touched your hair, it’s only because he needs human contact. No more, no less._

Lizard-brain, on the other hand, was busy admiring your hands (as previously alluded to), and your wrists (thankfully both intact), and your forearms, and the whole of your slender youthful frame, including your breathlessly tight Levi’s. _Eat him like a blade of sun-warmed grass!_ shouted the lizard.

But human-brain said, _Stop that_ , so I just kind of leaned forward and put my arms around you in an awkward, elbow-y way. Patted your back a few times. Probably even thumped it, man-style. Huggin’ yeh, but hittin’ yeh.

Then you scooted your arse across the couch, didn’t you. And you leaned against my chest, and hid your face in my shoulder.

Human-brain said, _He’s crying. Fuck. We are not equipped to handle this. One crying bandmate per night should be enough for anyone._ Lizard-brain said, _Fuck’s sake mate, he’s not crying. What’s wrong with you? Just last night you were dreaming about actually being a guitar, with his hands all over you. Now’s your chance._

And human-brain—the traitor!—relented. _The lizard’s right! Do something!_

(Mind you this brain-to-brain dialogue was not taking place where I could hear it. But it _was_ taking place.)

So I held you tighter, and I even let my hand rest lightly on the nape of your neck, under your hair. I could feel your breath every time you exhaled, a little circle of heat right below my collarbone, coming and going. You tightened your grip on me but I wasn’t sure if you were hugging me back or trying to escape. I wanted you, Edge. Even then. I even said the words in my mind: I want you, Edge. Me, _I_ said it. Neither lizard nor human. (Well yes, human.) You were so warm. You were [Bony-Moronie](https://genius.com/Larry-williams-bony-moronie-lyrics) but strong as steel. I remember the t-shirt you were wearing—washed so often it was soft as flannel. It was yellow. You smelled faintly of sweat and beer and shampoo. Like a boy. Like me. We stayed there struggling against each other until you looked up and barely brushed my lips with yours.

And then of course we started to laugh because there was nothing else we could do, was there? We had girlfriends, and we weren’t _that way_. We were merely best mates in a tense situation, and it had already been such a long night.

But I was thinking, maybe I _am_ that way. Maybe I’m both ways.

I didn’t think you were, though. Surely not you.

So I laughed and asked you if you were feeling better now, and you said you were. And you said, “Thanks, man.” (What the _fuck_ , The Edge.) But I was so scared of losing you that I just shrugged. And then you were back on your side of the couch. Yawning, no less.

Thanks man,  
B

 

***

You’re welcome?

I’m cringing and laughing myself sick. You know, I do remember all of that. I do. Those little wrestling matches happened more than once, didn’t they? Usually during times of great triumph or crushing defeat. And they escalated over time.

I didn’t really bury this stuff you know; I just shoved it off to the side because I didn’t know what to make of it. But ten years later, after all that touring, I could give a name to what was brewing between you and me, and own up to it—mostly.

But sweetheart, what is there to be gained by bringing up this old stuff now?

 

***

Just priming the pump for New York, The Edge.

 

***

Oh, the pump is primed. Well done, you.

Do you suppose that if the Della Robbia kid managed to live as long as I have, his hair would have migrated from his head to the rest of his body?

 

***

If so Edge, he’d have been the sexiest Della Robbia in all of _Italia_.

But tell me, wouldn’t you love to recapture the innocence, that intensity of those old wrestling matches? If you could? If it were at all possible? (Do you think it is?)

 

***

***

***

God Bono, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. It’s still afternoon here, and there were domestic matters to attend to. It must be really late in Dublin. I hope you’re asleep. But sorry to leave you hanging on that question, sweetheart.

So you really wanna know what I think?

I don’t think it’s possible to recapture how we felt in 1980, as much as I would like to. We know too much. We’ve been everywhere. We’ve been all over, and it’s been all over us. (If I may paraphrase this smart guy I know.) We’ve tasted almost every cuisine known to humankind; we’ve seen the sun rise on every continent. We’ve done a lot of stuff we probably shouldn’t have done. We’ve been worshipped, and we’ve been reviled.

But we have the keys to several cities. We’ve made music, films, art, and plays. _You’ve_ saved millions of lives—literally. We have incredible, astonishing wives and children. We’ve had brushes with death, but we’ve always escaped—yes please and thank you.

So no, I don’t think we can ever be that innocent again. But what’s wrong with experience?

You know, I don’t even want to be a Della Robbia anymore. I think I’d rather be sculpted by someone more like you. Someone a little rough-and-tumble, someone with a little mileage on him. Someone who’s not afraid to take a chisel to a huge block of marble even if there’s a good chance he’ll fuck it up. Michelangelo, that other motherless child. The guy who made The David, and The Pieta.

Anyway, that’s enough of me waxing lyrical. Again, that’s your job.

Here’s what we can do though: we can find an old red couch somewhere in New York, and I’ll wear a yellow t-shirt that smells of beer, sweat, and shampoo. I’ll even wear breathlessly tight Levi’s, if you don’t mind a little extra flesh protruding over the waistband. And we can sit on opposite ends of the couch, and I’ll brush your hair away from your eyes, and you can ask me if I need a hug. I’ll say “yeah, actually.”

And since it is not in fact 1980, I will then insist that you lie down on that red couch, and I’ll remove your clothes in my infuriatingly slow, methodical way, from your ubiquitous black jacket to your ubiquitous black socks. I will then proceed to worship you with my hands, and my mouth, and my cock, until you've given my name the five syllables and eight octaves it so richly deserves.

And then I’ll begin all over again.

Innocence is overrated. And as you always say, love is bigger than anything in its way.

See you in New York. ;)  
E

 

***

Well then, The Edge. I find myself at a loss for words, which is a vanishingly rare occurrence. Truthfully, I don't need Della Robbia Edge or Lonesome Cowboy Edge at all. I'll take you as you are now, bearded and wise. A perfect, un-fucked-up block of marble if ever there was one. Can't wait to feel your arms around me, love. And to feel everything else.

Or, to put things in the very simplest of terms: thanks, man!

Until New York,  
B


End file.
